


an alter laid bare

by WhimperSoldier



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: He comes back, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-01-13 11:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimperSoldier/pseuds/WhimperSoldier
Summary: The shrine was a small thing; practical, soft cut stones forming a small space in which a god may reside. Damen had torn his best tunic into strips, twisting the fabric into long ropes thick enough to press in string lined with shells and other odds and ends. It draped prettily around the shrine and the sea worn stones and shells chimed together in the wind while he worked, sounding like the chatter of a fae language.It was when the trinkets he left at the altar started to vanish that he grew concerned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been gathering dust in my WIP folder, and I love it too much to let it go. Enjoy!

In the center of his field was a flowering orange tree. Damen felt it was too beautiful to plow and too useful to be ignored. He left the earth a rich green around its roots, using the shade of the leaves to rest under at the height of the day when the sun became to warm to do anything slightly resembling work.

The shrine was a small thing; practical, soft cut stones forming a small space in which a god may reside. It took Damen three weeks to hagle the marble from the salesman and the beautifully woven string of blessings was done a bit at a time during the long stretches of hours between sunset and sunrise. Damen had torn his best tunic into strips, twisting the fabric into long ropes thick enough to press in string lined with shells and other odds and ends. It draped prettily around the shrine and the sea worn stones and shells chimed together in the wind while he worked, sounding like the chatter of a fae language.

It was not Damen’s intention to attract such a creature, only to keep his orange tree company during the long days. He left trinkets at the base of the shrine, small beads and colorful stones he liked, a small slice of fresh baked bread, or even an odd shaped acorn. Things he found and liked, things that were interesting, and others that were just plain odd.

It was when the trinkets he left at the altar started to vanish that he grew concerned.

Some spirit had moved in, nonviolent, Damen thought, to take such measly offerings and not deal out some great cosmic retribution. In Ios, the Greater Gods demanded large sacrifices of white bulls and the burning of yards of expensive cloth in payment for protection. Out in the rural lands they had not bulls to kill nor silks to burn and made do with what was given to them.

So Damen made do.

It was a bittersweet treat to find small valuables and place them before a god who seemed as curious as he was as to what Damen would find next. Damen left a piece of worn driftwood that had been polished smooth in the waves, the bleached skull of a mouse found under his woodpile, the budding flowers that would soon grow to be oranges.

The shrine gained three fat candles that flickered throughout the day and deep into the night but never seemed to drip wax. The birds that visited always left gifts behind too, acorns and pine cones and silly shaped burrs. Hawks and eagles left half eaten squirrels and fish Damen had to clean off but by far his favorites were the crows who offered buttons and strips of leather or even semi-precious stones, uncut and rough but that shined when the sun hit them.

“Your home has become quite lovely,” Damen said, voice quiet, reverent. He reached out and tilted a candle down to light the others. “Perhaps another oyster shell for your alter.”

He sat, his dirt-stained chiton brushing the soft grass. He felt unclean standing before the shrine but it was of little consequence now. He tilted his head down, hands clasped in prayer.

“I can not grant you anything,” It said, quiet and soft. Thoughtful.

Damen raised his eyes, surprised but not startled. He had assumed he would never see the god who had chosen such a humble shrine when there were others much grander and more populous farther in the city. His god was pale, long arms and legs spread about the top of the shrine in a careless gesture that was too precise to be anything but intentional. It’s face was covered in a fractured wooden mask marked in archaic symbols with soft brown cloth linking each side to the other.

It was half hidden under the brow of a large hat of worn reeds, with its arms and legs wrapped in thick strips of cloth revealed by its chiron. Only it’s feet and hands were visible and were a deathly pale white. The creature tilted it’s head to the side.

“You stare,” It said, matter of fact. “Was it not you who left gifts for me?”

“I have never seen a Minor God before,” Damen said, his voice asking a question. Why show yourself?

It rolled it’s neck shifting in an unearthly and unsettling display that looked to force its shoulders to crack. A string of baubles lined its waist and they jingled when it moved. 

“Have you seen many gods?” It asked, folding it’s legs daintily.

“I lived in Ios for a time, the god of war would come overhead often,” Damen said, standing and going back to work.

“Oh, that brute,” The god said, voice tight. Damen could feel it’s eyes on his back watching him as he gently watered the small light green buds. “I can not help your plants grow.”

“Alright,” Damen said, moving down the line before starting over.

“I am not the god of harvests or pleasant weather. I can not grant you safety or protection against raiders or soldiers,” It continued, looking for all the world as if it couldn’t care less despite the fact that his face was carefully tilted to gauge Damen’s reaction.

“This harvest looks to be good and I can defend myself against any raiders who come my way,” Damen said, picking his way through his fields to slouch down under the orange tree. The god shifted away, fluttering like smoke into the small opening in the stone, his voice echoing from inside.

“You are a fool.”

~ ~ ~

The god was sharp and bitter but it was company. Damen was a social creature by nature and while he could have lasted another moon’s turn until returning to the village, it was nice to have someone to talk to.

“You are doing it wrong,” It chided, its leg tucked under its chin. “The sun is too hot, it might kill the leaves.”

“Well how would I have known this?” Damen hissed, thumbing his drooping plants. It had been too hot yesterday and he couldn’t get water to the fields quick enough. “It is too late to plant anew, so I will just have to watch more carefully next time.”

“Mix the soil from the treeline and drop it overhead,” It said, tilting its hat down to hid its mask. “Not even you can lose every single plant in the span of a single day.”

~ ~ ~

The god watched him lounge with all the patience of a panther and with just as much grace. 

“What is it that you think I can give you, farmer?” It asked, seemingly as lethargic in the summer heat as Damen.

“Company? Companionship? A very good umbrella?” Damen laughed, flinching when the god recioled in annoyance and his large brimmed hat no long stopped the sun from hitting his eyes, sending the god into demented sounding giggles.

~ ~ ~

“You have curls.”

“And you must have eyes,” Damen responded, brushing his growing hair out of his eyes and back into the tie at the base of his neck. “I had just cut it when I met you.”

“Why?”

“Why do I have curls or why did I cut my hair?”

“Both.”

Damen sighed, glaring at the god who was perched lightly atop the shrine. They stared for a while until Damen grunted.

“I have curls from my mother and cut them to avoid questions.”

“What questions?”

“Will you drop this!” Damen yelled, his anger a sick feeling in his stomach. When he looked up from where he had shoved the hoe into the soil, the god was gone. He sighed.

Damen picked his way through the growing rows of crops, gently shifting their stalks until he could reach out and brush the shrine. He kneeled.

“Questions about my mother,” Damen said in a hushed voice. “I thought you would have guessed that, clever as you are.”

“I did know,” Damen didn’t look up, hearing the voice float bodielessly from deep within the stone. “I just wanted you to tell me.”

~ ~ ~ 

“Do you have a name?” Damen asked.

“Yes.”

“Will you tell it to me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I?”

“Why not?”

“Don’t be contrary.” The god said.

~ ~ ~

It was worried about him.

It called from the shrine to the house but Damen moved with a single minded purpose. The summer rains had washed away a large portion of the hillside and with it, the crops of the mountain clans. Now they raided the local farms and last night, they had gutted a man and left him bleeding in the dirt.

“You fool! This is not your fight!” It called, standing atop the uppermost stone. Its arms were crossed as if it wanted to convince Damen of its indifference. “I don’t care but who else would leave offerings if you go off and die?”

“Mayhaps you might get lucky and some pretty woman will come here to weep,” Damen said, walking over and looking up at it. “Goodby, little god.”

He turned and started walking. His feet felt filled with lead. 

“Laurent.”

Damen stopped. Every piece of him yearned to turn back, to put back his sword and lock up his armor and pretend people were not dying just down the road. He could curl up under the orange tree and watch the light shine through the leaves and listen to the soft babbling of the river over the hill. He could poke at the god, Laurent, and maybe the fleeting drop in his heart every time it opened its mouth could blossom into something more. 

Damen continued on.

Behind him, the god made an unearth screech, as if in pain, as it slipped back into the shrine.

~ ~ ~

His shrine was slowly decaying.

It had been months and the once shiny shells with their gossamer insides became dull with dust and cracked when they hit each other. The fabric was unraveling, fraying from rips and tears, the blessings that were wrapped inside strewn about.

Laurent tried to grab them, to tuck the ruined paper inside to protect it from the rain and the wind, but he was so weak, and his fingers and toes could touch nothing now.

~ ~ ~

A child was walking up the path, slowly filling in with weeds. The town was still rebuilding from the war and had little time to remember a small farm on the outskirts of their lives. 

He was dusty, tired, and annoyed but happy to see that the house was still standing and not yet overrun by the vines. The door was unlocked and everything looked perfectly in place. Just as he was about to open the door to the pantry, the front door slammed shut, the shutters rattling on the outside of the house and sent the boy running out into the field, his hands gripping tightly to his bag.

“You are not welcome here.” 

He screamed, spinning around and feeling as if his breath had been punched out of him. Damen had warned him but Nacise was unprepared for the humanoid creature which was looming over him, back straight and faceless stare piercing. 

“Tell that to Damen!” Nacise called, pointing an accusatory finger in the god’s direction. 

“What do you know of him?” It was quiet, a slow uncurling, like a snake deciding whether or not to strike. “Who are you?”

With this, the boy deflated, glancing down to his bag and then back up to the god in a sort of residual defiance. Finally, he sighed, dropping to his knees and pulling something from his bag.

The god froze unnaturally, still as death as the boy carefully pulled bones from his bag, laying them out as respectfully as he could.

“No,” The god whispered. “You lie.”

“Why would I be here if not to take him home?” Nacise hissed. Of all the bodies he had delivered home to their families, Damen’s request had been strangest of all, but Nacise had done it, and was stuck with this god who was slowly peeling its mask off.

The wood clanked on the marble, chipping in places, but it was too focused on the skull. It leaned forward, raising it up to press their foreheads together, the milk pure skin became smeared with a streak of chalky ash. Nacise had taken pride in his perfectly styled brown curls, but the god’s yards of shimmering blonde hair put his ringlets to shame.

“How?”

Nacise was quiet. This was normally the part where families paid him and he left them to their grief, but here, on this lonely hamlet, he sighed, and did what he’d never done before. He told the truth.

“Spear to the gut,” Nacise said. “Protecting another soldier, I think. It was a slow and painful death.” A thick silence descended over the pair. “He talked about you a lot.”

The god didn’t respond, choosing instead to gather the bones protectively in its arms, face as blank as stone. Piece by piece, from the wrist to the femur, the god carefully lowered the bones into the shrine.

“He left the house to me, you know?” Nacise said, not so much a question but a statement. The god ignored him, finishing with the bones before blowing away like petals in the wind, shimmering as they were sucked into the mouth of the shrine. “Hey!”

The boy got no response, instead going to search the house for anything he could sell.

~ ~ ~

Damen was as much ash as Laurent was.

Laurent ran a finger down the graceful curve of Damen’s pelvis, memory fleshing out the image until the other man took shape before his eyes, warm and as bright as the sun. Like everything, it faded, but the buzz in his veins, that spark of worship, that remained.

Laurent peeked quietly, noting the rain which poured down the orange tree and cleared away all the rotting fruit and bird shit which had accumulated now that Damen was not there to clean it. No new worshiper took shape, only the jittery feeling of finding an interesting acorn or funny little flower left by his farmer. The light was on in the farm house, _his_ farmhouse. By this rate, that little interloper would plow through all of Damen’s rations by spring. He looked down at the bones.

They sat in an innocuous pile, the skull grinning up crookedly at him. Even in death, it seemed he would worship Laurent.

What a fool.

~ ~ ~

Laurent could hear the shattering call of War. He was screaming across the sky, a vivid slash of blood red. He was hungry and his hounds were baying for blood. Had they not taken enough? The kings in Ios slit the throats of oxen and goats daily, whole rolls of the finest silk was burned to decorate his halls, and still he took more. Laurent hated him, hated him and his screaming, and his red banners that cut the sky.

In his little alter, he sat quietly, waiting for the god to pass. Laurent was, among other things, the god of good leathers and the soft feeling of a horse’s snout; the god of sun beams between thunderclouds and the roar of hoofbeats before a battle. He was not the god of rebirth nor death. He was not the god of fallen heros, no matter how he felt it might have been fitting. He could not bring back Damen.

But War could.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems I am unable to write unhappy endings. This is not exactly where I want it to be at, but I figure if I don't post it now, it will never see the light of day!
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments!

Laurent felt bare without the warm humming marble to hold his soul. He was still tethered there, could feel the thread which was entangled with the ropes and gifts and the land itself, but being in the open made him feel vulnerable and alone. Damen sat bundled in a bag to his side, clutched every few moments as if he might scatter in the wind like Laurent was ought to do.

War’s alter was a grandiose monstrosity in the center of Ios, with blood red banners which whipped around in a frenzy even when there was no wind. People parted around Laurent though he didn’t think they could see him. Damen was the exception even there, seeing him even when he wished to be ignored. 

War sat atop his alter as a king might a throne. He smelled of burnt hair and his eyes were as red as coals. Laurent watched War’s slaves rush past, sweeping through people with puffs of smoke as they ran. One sat behind War, brushing out his inky hair which rippled without anything moving it. Faintly, Laurent thought fondly of Damen and his curls.

Laurent was born in Vere. He was relatively young, as far as gods go, but he remembered clearly that War rarely came to Vere. Instead, it was War’s counterpart, Cunning who was worshiped in their halls. Here, he felt out of his depth and off his element.

Laurent had disliked him, Cunning, the regal man without eyes. He had pet Laurent’s hair and called him sweet names and then he’d killed Laurent’s brother.

“You come before me, Little Godling, what do you want?” War was much bigger than Laurent, ten feet tall, at least. He leaned over to get a better look at Laurent who had tilted his head down to hide his face. “You have a request? Or supplication?”

“I have come with a plea, to return to me someone you have taken into your hall,” Laurent said quietly, bending down onto one knee. War wished to be flattered and for Damen, Laurent would do it. “A soldier lost.”

Laurent carefully pulled Damen’s skull from the bag, placing it on the ground. War leaned forward, interest peaked. With a wave of his hand, the bones flew forward and before his eyes, Damen took shape. It looked like he was made of stars, face blank and unseeing but more solid than Laurent had seen in months, but when he reached out to touch him, his fingers met ash.

“Ah, the Lion!” War cried. He almost looked melancholy when the shade of Damen gave no response. “He fought off a hundred enemy warriors for the chance that his men might reach safety. I heard his last prayer.”

Inexplicably, Laurent felt jealous. He knew the fear Damen must have felt, the overwhelming flood of adrenaline that pushed him to move faster, hit harder, be quicker, but he had wanted to hear Damen’s last words. He wanted Damen’s worship for him and him alone.

“I wish for you to return him to me,” Laurent started. He had few things to barter with, but he knew he would be willing to give up much. “I have worship I can give-”

“I have no need for that. I have nothing you could give that I could want in trade for his soul,” War leaned back. He looked defensive.

“He is just one soldier! He is nothing to you--” But Laurent watched the way the fire in his eyes flickered and his nut brown skin cracked like cooled magma where he was gripping onto his spear. “You said in trade for _his_ soul, not any soul, _his_ soul. Who is he to you?”

“You think to demand questions from me?!” War stood and Laurent was forced to shuffle back. War’s foot came down too fast and while Laurent tried to dart forward, the shadowy form of Damen was scattered and his bones broke under the metal heel of War’s sandals.

Laurent screamed.

He never should have come. He could have been, not happy, but content to remain in his little alter fed by the fading love of a dead farmer’s bones, and once that too faded so to would Laurent and perhaps he might then see Damen again, and maybe even his brother, in the fields of paradise from where even gods cannot return.

Damen’s skull fluttered out of the ash and rolled across the floor. Laurent dove for it. The worshipers were screaming, running away from the anger of the god. Damen’s skull was warm and grinned up at him between his hands. 

Laurent spotted a blur of metal and rolled to the side, War’s spear embedding itself in the limestone floor. Laurent conjured a shield that blocked the next strike, but cracked when the butt of the weapon came sweeping around the side.

The slaves were blocking the exits, their small godly auras rising as their master became more and more frenzied. Laurent for all his cleverness and skill, was not a god of brute strength.

He was the god of masks and hidden things, things that do nothing against War. He had tucked his brother’s killer away in an urn for all of eternity until people would forget his name and replace him with another. His methods were so underhanded they might have sent Damen running for the hills, but he only wished he could tell the farmer this, if only to see him once again. It seemed he too might die in battle, anyhow.

“ _Enough!_ ”

A woman stood on the top of the stairs. She was beautiful, with thick dark hair and rich warm skin. A gold circlet sat atop her brow that marked her as a queen. She marched over, dress waving behind her as if she were wearing a cape.

“You do not understand!” War cried but the queen stood tall, back unbent and will as strong as iron. “He wishes to steal from me, to take from me what is mine!”

“He was my son, too!” She cried. Laurent went still, breathing heavy and clutching Damen closer to him. The skull felt heavy and warm in his hand. _A prince, a demigod!_ Laurent thought, _there is power in names. There is power in blood._ “You wished to know why I sent him away? It was to cut his connection to you!”

Laurent moved back slowly. He knew when to stay quiet and he wished to see how this played out.

“My son was to be a warrior!” He cried. His voice sounded like pounding war drums.

“He was to be a good king!” The queen countered. Laurent could see golden veins climbing up her neck as she spoke. He knew she was half goddess herself, but the queen never spoke of her divine mother. _Rebirth_ Laurent hoped, _be the god that can bring back the fallen._ And as if he was heard, the queen screamed, deafening and hair-raising and as commanding as any god. “ _Return my son_.”

Damen’s skull warmed in his hands, gently shaking as if to say _wait darling, I’m coming,_ before flying out of his hands. With a screech, they coalesced into a pile before his queen mother. Laurent ran forward and gave a little push of his power into the bones. His worship, returned.

It happened like the adding of wet clay to a pile, piece by piece, and before his eyes a shape took form. Damen was crouched down, naked, hands folded as if in supplication. His hair was longer from his time at war and now hung heavy and clean above his shoulders. Where there was once scars now was only smooth skin bar the long lashes across his back. 

Laurent was always clever, but now his wit failed him and he found himself on his knees so close to Damen he could almost touch him if he only had the will to reach out. His hands remained clutched to his chest.

Damen opened his eyes and looked up. He stilled when he saw his mother, then when he finally gathered himself to turn, saw War watching him with eyes that glowed like embers. Finally, Damen saw Laurent, unmasked and crouching down as he was, both looking tired and afraid.

“Laurent,” Damen whispered, voice broken from disuse. Laurent wanted to weep but held himself still until Damen’s eyes grew damp and with great heaving sobs he fell forward and into Laurent’s arms. He kept repeating Laurent’s name, in joyous, rapturous tones. _Laurent Laurent Laurent._

He said it like he always had.

A prayer.

~ ~ ~

“Your brother found me.” Damen said. They were laying together in Damen’s bed, curled around each other like kittens. Laurent stilled and Damen’s light petting stopped. “We watched you. I’m sorry.”

“You came back.” Laurent whispered. He thought of his brother in paradise. Auguste was a sun god, he had always liked the warmth.

~ ~ ~

When Laurent felt himself sink into his new alter, he immediately felt the pathways.

“What did you do?”

“My mother knew of ways to connect alters, both within the palace and out, even ones far from here. Even ours.” Damen said quietly, brushing a finger down Laurent’s cheek. Laurent thought of the farm with its orange trees and little boy still caring for his overgrown garden. He reached out and ran his hand over the bracelet Damen wore to dampen his godly blood until he learned to control it. “One day, I will master my skills and we shall travel together.”

“You shall be busy being king.” Laurent pointed out.

“No I shall have an advisor, you see,” Damen said, leaning back into the flowers surrounding Laurent’s temporary alter. They seemed to lean into him too. Laurent would bet a fertility god, or one of peace and love, taken from his mother not his father. Perhaps even a god of the sun, like his brother. “He shall be exceptionally clever.”

“Exceptionally.”

“And beautiful.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And humble as a monk.”

“Questionable.”

Damen threw his head back in a laugh and the trees seemed to shake to reach him. Laurent smiled at his little dimple, the warmth of the sun on his cheeks, and the flush of worship which curled warmly in his gut.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @ whimper-soldier.tumblr.com


End file.
